I was reading Alice Munro on the bus. I can’t remember which story. A man talking to a middle aged woman about how men can start all over with a younger woman, but a woman really can’t. About how this keeps women in touch with death, in touch with their own mortality. I missed my stop and had to get off and wait in the dark, in the cold wind of the autumn night. It was true, of course, this story. After that I had nothing to say. I was in a universe by myself and winter was coming.